Of all the things that famously set us humans apart from the other subjects in the animal kingdom (thumbs, clothing, luxury sedans), maybe nothing sets us farther apart than our ability to observe the fact that we are set apart in the first place.

My dogs _ there are three of them _ appear to spend little to no time on the subject.

Maybe they don’t care what separates them from us.

Maybe they think the differences are so slight as to hardly bear consideration.

Maybe their brains are the size of golf balls and just as articulate.

Maybe they’re so busy waiting for a particularly slow chipmunk to cross their paths that they can’t find time to think much about it.

I think about it, though.

In spite of the occasional burst of chipmunk-induced excitement, their generally content demeanor may be the most striking difference. Then again, it’s possible they’re just better at hiding their anxiety. (The Sheltie is the exception; she’s a bundle of herding nervousness and she doesn’t care who knows.)

I am most envious, however, of the way that the world is ever novel to my panting little pooches.

Every blessed thing is brand new to them every single time they encounter it. They are utterly unburdened by the grind of repetition.

My envy on this point came to a head the other day as I pulled out the electric leaf blower and began the sisyphean task of clearing the lawn.

The first time you tackle that project is fun, isn’t it?

The roar of the machine emboldens you as you charge into the crispy legions of fallen leaves. With every sweep of your mighty arm, the leaves cower and skitter in fear.

And it’s so terrifically satisfying. There is zero delay in gratification for this job. The smallest flick of your leaf-blowing wrist yields wide swaths of soft, green lawn.

It is just like magic.

And if you want to really commit to the magical quality of lawn maintenance, invite your 3-year-old daughter to help you blow leaves one morning when the air is crisp and the sky is blue and the full, pale ghost of last night’s moon is lingering in the sky to see what everyone’s doing.

You won’t be sorry.

My daughter doesn’t generally like loud noises unless they are coming from her very own mouth. The leaf blower instantly gives her the expression of a person riding the first big hill of a roller coaster: The Frozen Smile o’ Terror.

In spite of her apprehension, she wanted to help. She also wanted to wear a red dress printed with white snowflakes and a pair of red and blue galoshes. My girl is a fashionista of the first order.

As I paced the yard, driving chorus lines of red and yellow maple leaves into picture-perfect little heaps, my daughter stomped just ahead of me, twirling and dancing and jumping hard with both feet.

The leaves swirled around her, and at times she laughed so hard I thought she might not be able to catch her breath.

She plowed with two-fisted delight into my neat little piles of leaves and emerged like the pop of a confetti gun, only with more squealing and giggling.

How many times that afternoon did I think to myself that I should put down the lawn tools, forget about the work that needed to be done, and fetch my camera from inside the house?

I can’t count.

But I didn’t listen to myself.

I herded the leaves and, even as I enjoyed my progress, I grew irritated at the leaves overhead that I knew would fall the next day.

Today they cover the lawn again, several layers thick. Maybe this weekend, I’ll trundle out the leaf blower again, and try to take a tip from my dogs. I’ll look for wonder and novelty in repetition. And maybe this time, I’ll be smart enough to take pictures.